


Antagonism, Literally

by cornichaun (cerebel)



Series: Public Defender 'Verse [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Discussion of Dicks, Discussion of Erectile Dysfunction, Discussion of Legal Defense, Discussion of Mental Retardation, Discussion of Systemic Racism, Discussion of Victim-Blaming, Discussion of Welfare Fraud, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Multi, Steve is a war veteran, Steve needs a family, The Avengers are public defenders, The Garbage American Judicial System, discussion of Many Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 07:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14665800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerebel/pseuds/cornichaun
Summary: Steve Rogers is a war veteran, coming home from overseas. He decides to put his old law degree to good use. He's already acted as judge, jury and executioner; the only real role left is defense, right? And maybe it'll help him feel like he's wiping out the red in his ledger. Being a public defender, that sounds like something he wants to try.Heed tags, heed warnings. This fic contains a lot of sensitive topics, as would come up in a public defender's office.





	Antagonism, Literally

**Author's Note:**

> First of all: everything in this fic, every case, every law, every court situation, is drawn from actual and personal experience with the court system. Details are changed, crimes are swapped, locations are anonymized. Some of this is going to seem real heavy-handed. It's going to seem unrealistic. I promise: this is how it happens. This is how it works. 
> 
> Next: Characters display certain amounts of irreverence and disrespect in this fic, for truly sensitive topics. Characters opinions are not reflective of the author.
> 
> So let's talk for a second about the nicer stuff. This story is, for me, a little bit of a purging of demons, and a little bit of a desire to just... talk about stuff. The particular universe, in which the characters we know and love are placed into the reality of the court system, has been one I've played with in my head for ages. I plan on writing more on this, and on writing some variations, potentially romantic variations, within this framework. Don't expect a strong plot; it's more of a series of vignettes. This first chapter/story is more setting up the way it works than anything else. 
> 
> Finally: HEED WARNINGS. This story contains references to all kinds of crimes, from the minor to the truly despicable. The context here necessitates discussion of the legal defense of people who commit those crimes. If you do not want to be exposed to this content, do not read. 
> 
> If anyone would like further resources or clarification, if anyone has questions, or just wants to shoot the shit about the criminal justice system, feel free to say something, and/or hit me up at cornichaun on tumblr.

Captain Steven Rogers comes back from the war aimless, empty, cold. 

Once upon a time, there was this kid, this idealistic kid, who signed up for the Marines and got sent to a desert. Once upon a time, that kid knew who he was and what he believed in. These days, Steve wakes up with imaginary grit under his fingernails and in his teeth, and he can’t do anything but shiver, shiver, shiver, until his body remembers that he’s back home. 

_Home._

Can hardly remember what that means. 

\--

Been a while since law school, but Steve’s got a good memory, and he remembers how to think, which is the really important part. 

He’s almost late for the interview, and it’s for a really dumb reason: he can’t find the office. The new phone seems to have a mind of its own, and the maps program is convinced that the actual location of the public defender’s office is in the middle of a parking lot. 

He steps inside two minutes after the interview time, cursing himself, and introduces himself to the secretary, a stunningly beautiful woman with absolutely, perfectly straight red hair. 

“Mr.,” she says, and then, glancing at his uniform, corrects herself: “Captain Rogers, right? I’m Pepper Potts. Phil’s just finishing up with a client.” 

Uniform, because he doesn’t have a single damn suit that fits. All of the ones from law school are too tight across the shoulders. Apparently he bulked up a _lot_ , overseas. So he’s just wearing the dress uniform and hoping for the best. 

He shakes her hand. “Nice to meet you,” and it’s genuine, he realizes. He hasn’t said that and meant it for a long time. He has high hopes for this. These people, they fight for something that matters. Something that goes to the heart of what the Constitution calls for. 

Steve wants, very badly, to be a part of that. 

\--

“Phil” turns out to be P.D. Coulson, the head of the office. His appearance is proceeded by a wave of sweat/dirt/cigarette that has Pepper wrinkling her nose. 

The source of the smell is a man in his forties, in muddy jeans and work boots, crushing a worn baseball cap in his hands. “Thanks,” the man is mumbling, “thanks a lot.” 

Phil emerges from the meeting room a step after. Nondescript, balding, white; Steve forgets Phil’s face as soon as he glances away, has to look back to remind himself.

To Phil’s credit, he seems to be ignoring the smell entirely. 

“Thank you for coming in,” he returns, evenly. “Now, what’d I tell you about court?” 

The man hesitates. “Come early,” he says. “Dress good, khakis instead of jeans.” 

“And…?” prompts Phil.

“Yes, Your Honor, no, Your Honor, sir, ma’am…?” 

“Be polite. -- You got it.” Handshake is exchanged, and the cloud of malodor begins squeezing itself out of the door after the client. 

After the door rings closed, Steve hears the soft _hiss_ of a spray can. Twitches around, but it’s just Pepper, nose still delicately wrinkled, producing a delicate mist of Lysol. 

“Captain Rogers is here,” she says, with a nod at Steve. 

Phil’s eyes settle on Steve, for the first time, and Steve feels a _whoosh_ of air fill his lungs. Seems to bring in strength with it, and a measure of calm. Phil’s presence is both sharp and reassuring, bland and broad. 

Phil is a veteran, he knows immediately. 

“Captain,” says Phil. “Hang on, I will be right with you.” 

“Sir,” comes out of Steve’s mouth, reflexively. He feels a little like an idiot, though Pepper doesn’t say anything – she’s busy wiping down the counter. 

Phil ducks into a doorway behind the main desk, and Steve hears running water. Emerges with a crumpled paper towel that he overhands into a trash can halfway across the room. 

“Now.” Phil focuses back on Steve. “What do you say we have this meeting in the coffee shop next door?” 

Steve glances to Pepper, a little off-balance.

She mimes holding her nose, waving a hand underneath – indicates the meeting room. 

“Bad ventilation back there,” Phil clarifies. “Besides, I could use an afternoon boost. You?” 

\--

Five minutes later, Steve has coffee, Phil has tea, and they’re seated on either side of an antique-looking table that’s also a chessboard, with weird too-large cupholders in every corner.

“So,” says Phil. He leans back. “Why here?” 

It’s not the first question Steve is expecting, but he did anticipate it. “To be honest, sir,” he says –

“Phil,” corrects Phil. 

Steve gives him a dubious look.

“Really,” he says. “If I can call you Steve.” 

Steve forces himself to relax. Breathe out a little. “Okay,” he says. “Phil. To be honest, there’s not anything in particular tying me here.” A pause, and: “I just applied at every public defender’s office in Virginia that had an opening.” 

“Why Virginia?” counters Phil.

Easier. “I went to school in DC,” he says. “Figured that a Virginia bar exam would be more flexible than that. And now I don’t want to take another one.” 

Phil huffs a laugh. “Okay,” he says. “Why public defender’s offices?” 

Steve echoes Phil’s posture, sitting back. He feels lost, suddenly, neck-high in the weeds and nowhere to go. _Why_. He wrote all sorts of things in that cover letter he sent out, including an answer to this question, and it had to do with the Constitution, and with believing in American principles, and with the utter, absolute necessity of attorneys for the poor in order for the system to work at all. But it all sounds dry, dusty, empty when he tries to call it up under that gaze. 

He feels compelled to speak the truth. 

“Because I did the hero thing,” he says. “And it doesn’t feel that great.” 

Phil raises an eyebrow. “So it’s time to try the villain thing?” 

“No,” says Steve. “Time to try the forgiveness thing.” That feels difficult, coming out, so it’s probably real. 

Slight frown, on Phil’s part. “Unpack that for me,” he requests, gentle-toned. 

Steve struggles, again. “Judge, jury, and executioner didn’t work out for me,” he says, finally. “Figured defense was the only role left.” 

“Fair enough.” Phil accepts it. “Now, I’m gonna ask you some questions that may seem obvious.” 

Steve nods, trying to shift into lawyer-mode.

“Your client’s guilty. Is that a problem?” 

Steve hesitates. “No?” The question in his voice isn’t from uncertainty – just from the asinine nature of the question. 

“Sorry, have to ask,” he says. “Scenario: your client is charged with possession of a controlled substance, and is about to get on the first offender program. You find out that she has a conviction in another state, for felony drugs, under her maiden name, and that it would disqualify her from the program. What do you do?” 

Funny; in the military, his policies of honesty and honor would have required one answer, and one answer only. But it doesn’t feel like he’s doing the wrong thing when he says, “Not my job to straighten that out. If I can get her on first offender, I will.” 

“Good,” nods Phil. “ _Can_ you tell the court about her conviction?” 

He shakes his head. “But I also can’t and won’t lie if the court asks directly.”

“So what’s your response?” 

“Your Honor, I have no information to offer.” 

Smile twitches across Phil’s face. “I like that one. Scenario: your client tells you one story, goes on the stand to testify, and starts saying something totally different. They’re almost definitely lying on the stand. What do you do?” 

Steve pauses. “The legal ethics answer is to move to withdraw as counsel,” he says, slowly. “But, with a criminal case, the client has the right to take the stand. Constitutional right, which trumps the rules of court. But we’re also not supposed to offer perjury.” 

Phil nods, encouraging Steve to continue.

“So, I don’t know,” admits Steve. “I think he gets to have his day in court. He gets to talk.” 

This, clearly, was the right answer. Again. 

“One more thing,” says Phil. “What’s with the uniform?” 

Instead of a suit, Phil probably means. Steve makes a rueful face. “Guess I sprouted a little, overseas. My old suits don’t fit.” 

This time, Phil laughs. 

\--

“Whiskey dick,” says possibly the most well-dressed man that Steve has ever seen. “Why not?” 

The door shuts behind Steve, who goes still, unsure of what he’s heard.

“Tony. It’s not a viable defense strategy,” counters a kinda round-faced guy, also in a suit, not pulling it off as well as the first. Good shoulders, though. Strong. 

“It’s an absolutely viable defense strategy,” says the first. Tony, Steve supposes. “Hey, you,” he says, pointing at Steve, “you’re on a jury, ex-wife of the defendant comes in, really vindictive, long sharp nail-talons with little decals, you know--”

“Tony,” murmurs Pepper, her face in her hand. 

“And she says, this guy I actually married once, this one over here, if he has a single bottle of beer he’s stuck with a floppy one all night long.” 

Phil, who Steve theorizes may just be unflappable, gestures to the first guy. “Tony Stark,” he says, then the second: “And Clint Barton. Both of you, this is Steve Rogers, the applicant for the open position.” 

Tony ignores him. “What do you think?” he says. “Assume that the victim testifies, yes we were drinking all night, then this all happened.” 

Steve blinks.

“Grow some manners, Tony,” says Clint. “Hi, nice to meet you.” There’s a handshake. Steve isn’t really focusing on it the way he normally would. 

“Yeah,” says Steve, “I guess I don’t think a guy would say that on purpose if it’s not true…” 

“See?” crows Tony. “Yes!” 

“ _But_ ,” he continues, “the whole trial isn’t just humiliating for him. I’d want to know why the victim would lie. Or why she might be wrong. A _good_ reason.” 

Tony deflates. 

“Told you,” says Clint. 

“And welcome to the most horrifying thing about this office,” says Pepper, as Tony and Clint bicker, “which is that we actually have to talk about things like that. Like, as a job.” 

“Well, that’s it, then,” says Phil, and he turns to Steve. “Congratulations.” 

Steve is a little off-balance. “What?” 

“You’re hired,” says Phil. “You can start in two weeks. Pepper will send you the paperwork. Health insurance, all that.” 

Steve blinks, again. “Wait,” he says, “don’t you have more interviews to do? Don’t you need time to consider?” 

Tony and Clint and Pepper are watching. As is another red-headed woman, up above, at the top of the stairs, leaning on the rail. 

Coulson shakes his head. “Knew you were the real deal,” he says. “We got 27 applicants for this job. I only scheduled one interview.” 

Steve is – staggered. Flummoxed. His ghast is flabbered. 

“I don’t like him,” announces Tony. “Too pretty.” 

“He needs a suit-shopping consultation,” says Coulson.

Tony appears immediately at Steve’s elbow, apparently without traversing the intervening distance. “Hey, buddy,” he says, “welcome aboard! – Oh, wow, _damn._ ” 

His hand is on Steve’s arm. Bicep area.

“What?” asks Steve.

“Hell-oooo Dolly, you are packing some guns under there,” says Tony. “What are you made of, solid iron? We are going to need a tailor.” 

Steve flushes. 

“What’s your budget?” continues Tony. 

“Um,” says Steve. “A few hundred dollars?” 

“Five thousand,” counters Tony, like they’re in the middle of a negotiation. 

Steve actually has plenty of savings; he didn’t do much spending overseas. But he sees the game, now. “One thousand,” he says. “Can’t go above that.” 

“Four thousand?” 

“I really don’t need your help.” 

“Thirty-five hundred, and that’s my final offer!” 

“No,” says Steve, firmly. 

“Three thousand.” 

“Two thousand,” he allows. 

“Twenty-five hundred it is,” agrees Tony, blithely. “Drinks on the new guy, tonight.” 

\--

“He’s just worried he won’t be the prettiest anymore,” confides Pepper, a glass of wine in her hand, about six hours later. 

“Didn’t we already go through that with Wanda?” asks Clint. 

“Yes,” says Pepper. “Yes, we did.” 

“It’s okay, Tony,” says Clint, “you’ll always win ‘best dressed’.” 

“Great,” drawls Tony, “good to know, glad I’m a troll with great taste in suits.” 

Steve’s head is still spinning, and he has three large bags resting on the ground next to the armchair. Tony took them both to the bar after the shopping was done, apparently following up on his general invitation from earlier. 

The shopping. That definitely wasn’t just a _consultation_ ; Tony had gone all-out. 

“Blue is your friend,” he’d said, “and you can go light, doesn’t just have to be navy – here, right on the edge between navy and royal blue, that’s perfect, and you’ll want charcoal, too. Not black, black is for funerals and not-so-secret secret agents.”

“Coulson’s suit was black,” Steve had pointed out. 

“Yeah, and you see what it did?” asked Tony. “Half your brain tells you that’s the most boring white guy in the universe, the other half says _danger, danger, Secret Service_ , and suddenly all of you is perked up and listening.” 

Steve’d had to admit that was true, and during his pause to think about it, Tony stacked four Brooks Brothers suit variations in his arms. 

“Go try those,” he said. “Doesn’t have to fit all the way through, just find one that goes over your shoulders. Tailor will fix the rest.” 

“That’ll be a little pricey, won’t it?” 

“You’d be surprised.” Tony gave him a gentle shove towards the dressing rooms. “Go on, little caterpillar. Coccoon yourself into a beautiful civilian butterfly, while I find you some pocket squares.” 

And now they’re here, in the bar a few doors down from the office. 

(“Bar, candy store, burgers, free lawyers, coffee, wine,” Clint had said, pointing at each store in turn. “Our shopping center has everything!”) 

The bar is a quiet, friendly one, heavier on conversation than music. There’s an entire area around a dartboard, with a couple high tables, a couple more cushy armchairs. This seems to be The Spot; Pepper herds Steve to one of the armchairs, and claims a seat at one of the high tables; Tony and Clint collect a handful of darts from behind the bar and serve themselves, a process that the bartender doesn’t seem too concerned about. Clint proceeds to play an unbelievable game of darts, giving Tony a thorough drubbing. Tony laughs about it, easy and casual leaned against the empty armchair. With that ego, Steve would have expected him to be a sore loser. 

Tony’s announcement, earlier, seems to have served as an open invitation to the bar. Over time, a handful of others show up: the redhead from upstairs, who is introduced as Natasha. Her gaze is as sharp as Coulson’s, and she jumps straight to the top of Steve’s omnipresent list of the most dangerous people in any given room. With her is an _incredibly_ Scandinavian man, square-jawed and at _least_ as iron-bicep’d as Steve is. This is _Thor_ , apparently, because _of course it is._

“He’s our investigator. Handsome,” says Tony, “can bench-press six Jeeps, but dumb as rocks.” 

“He went to Yale,” Natasha points out.

“ _Like I said._ ” Tony takes a long drink of beer. “Dumb as rocks.”

Which is how Steve learns that Tony has an engineering degree from MIT, and this finally makes something click in his hindbrain. “Tony Stark,” he says. “Stark Industries, right? We used a lot of that tech overseas. MRAPs, right?” 

Tony’s expression turns sour. “I bet,” is all he says, and he makes an abrupt about-face, apparently eager to get destroyed at darts again. 

Pepper touches Steve’s shoulder. “It’s all right,” she says, quietly. “You didn’t know.” 

“Know what?” 

In brief: that Stark Industries got stolen right out from under the heir to Howard Stark, and that he was sued within an inch of his life. 

“He fired all his lawyers and went to law school himself,” recalls Pepper. “So now he has a big share of SI stock, but it’s nonvoting, and the CEO won’t do any dividend payouts as long as it’s in Tony’s hands.” 

“So he’s working as a… public defender?” 

Pepper sighs. 

“Yeah.” Tony has finished his turn, returned for his beer. “I’m working as a public defender. You wanna know why?” 

“You don’t owe me any answer,” Steve says. “It’s not my business.” 

“It’s Forbes’ business. It’s the Washington Post’s business. It’s everybody’s business,” Tony shoots back. 

“I wouldn’t jump off a cliff because everybody is,” Steve tells him. “I won’t violate your privacy just because everybody is, either.” 

In the low lighting, it’s hard to tell, but Steve’s pretty sure that there’s a touch of warmth in Tony’s cheeks at that. Hidden from Tony by the curve of her hand, Pepper gives him a little thumbs-up sign. 

“For that, I’ll tell you,” says Tony. “Those MRAPs were deployed to Afghanistan, Iraq. Yemen. Uganda. Syria. You know where else?” 

Steve shakes his head. 

“Watertown, Connecticut. Roanoke Rapids, North Carolina. Jasper County, Iowa.” Takes a long drink. “Handful of other places. Oh, and a little town, you might have heard of it: Ferguson, Missouri.” 

Steve winces.

“Yeah,” Tony says. “Listen.” He slides into the chair by Steve’s. “We’re all here for a reason, okay? Mostly, two different reasons. One is, for some reason, we don’t think the bad guys are really the bad guys anymore. Two, we think the good guys are a little too full of themselves. Public defenders, we’re a weird set of people. Half pinko bleeding-heart Commies, half stubborn libertarians.” He eyes Steve. “So which are you? You bleed pink, or bleed red, white, and blue?” 

Steve picks at the table. “Don’t know,” he says. 

“Sure you do. Socially liberal, fiscally conservative? Socially liberal, fiscally liberal?” 

Steve shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “We wrote boundaries into the Constitution. Someone has to make sure they’re real.” 

Tony tilts his head. And for the first time, Steve thinks Tony’s actually seeing him. Not just looking through, looking _at_. 

“Red, white, and blue it is,” says Tony. 

Steve’s okay with that. 

A woman with long brown hair is next. This turns out to be Wanda, and she grunts a greeting before situating herself next to Natasha. Then a guy with the subtle posture of a soldier in – imagine that – a black suit. 

“We barely tolerate him,” announces Tony. “Worst attorney in the office.” 

It’s James Rhodes, apparently. 

“He’s got a black suit on,” Steve points out.

“He _is_ black,” says Tony. “Besides, he has a pocket square.” 

Then: a guy who looks desperately like he wants to be as unassuming as Coulson, but gives the impression of someone too-tall and too-broad crammed into a smaller body. Bruce Banner, Pepper tells him. Not really a member of the PD team, same as Rhodes; Banner is a psych doctor, does the competency and sanity evaluations. 

“Oh, oh,” says Tony, “did you do the thing yet? Did you finish, with the guy.” 

Bruce sighs. “Yes,” he says. 

“Uh-oh,” mutters Clint. 

“What’s that sigh? I don’t like that sigh.”

Bruce tries a half-smile. 

“Noooooo,” groans Tony. 

“There’s nothing I can do,” says Bruce, “the law is the law.” 

“The guy hears voices! Voices! All the time!” insists Tony. 

“Yes, but he knows they’re delusions,” returns Bruce. “He understands the roles in the courtroom; he’s capable of explaining the charges against him –” 

“You are the _worst_ ,” accuses Tony. 

“Just,” says Bruce, “make sure that you speak clearly, and repeat things if necessary, and just, you know, speak up…?” 

“His guy hears voices,” says Clint, flatly, “and your suggestion is ‘talk louder’?” 

“He’s competent to stand trial,” says Bruce. “The insanity at time of offense report isn’t done yet.” 

“Great. Super. Thanks.” Tony glowers at the dart board, where Clint has placed an improbable cluster right at the center. Steve doesn’t see how Clint could possibly fit another in there, but, as he watches, Clint does a weird overhand throw, with the dart curving up then sharply down. It hits right at the top of the center circle. 

Bruce starts at the bar, a little beyond the periphery of the little group, but slowly drifts closer. He’s a loner, Steve thinks, but they accept him, and he wants it. 

The next is a black man with one of the best smiles Steve has ever seen, one he can’t help but return. “Sam,” he introduces himself, and that’s a nice handshake, too. “Sentencing specialist. I’m a pro at making excuses and finding drug treatment programs. It’s a gift.” 

“Ah,” says Steve. “Steve Rogers.” 

“Also run the local veteran group,” he says. “You should join.” 

Steve hesitates.

“I get it,” says Sam. “You won’t get any more pushes from me. Just know it’s there, okay?” 

Steve nods. “Okay.” And it is. Really. 

Steve leans back, watching them each, in turn, and the way they interact with one another. Even the most distant seem _connected_ , and not just because they’re colleagues. There’s more to it. 

Oh, he wants this to be real. He wants this to accept him, too. 

He has to take a breather, a few minutes later, and he runs into Coulson just outside. The man looks tired, and he pauses, assessing Steve. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

Steve breathes in. “It’s a lot.” 

“Not what I asked.” 

That makes the breath out take a lot of the tension with it. “I know.” 

“You’re gonna do fine,” says Phil, briefly touching Steve’s shoulder. Then pausing, and touching it again, eyebrows raised. “Wow, Tony wasn’t kidding.” 

Steve snorts. 

\--

He furnishes the apartment, which is in an old YMCA, renovated, nicest place he’s ever lived. But it’s about a quarter of take-home salary, thanks to the price of real estate in a town like this. 

It’s the right size, too, once it’s furnished. He doesn’t feel too small or too big in the space, both of which can come with their own challenges. He doesn’t feel settled, but he feels as though he could get there. 

\--

First two weeks are just signing paperwork and following people around. 

Coulson’s the best to follow, because his mild words are always to the point and tend to be exactly the answer to the question Steve hasn’t asked yet. He goes through an ordinary court day step by step, shows Steve each courtroom, introduces him to prosecutors and judges and court service units and clerks and deputies, all smearing into a broad blur. 

Steve learns terminology. 

CSU is court services for kids. GRCS is for adults. District 10 is felonies (all adult). 

Someone being “violated” means they have a probation violation charge pending. PB-15 is the formal name for that kind of charge. 

GDC is general district court, the lowest court level. JDR is juvenile/domestic relations court. Circuit court doesn’t have an easy abbreviation, but that’s more formal, a court of record. 

When he first reads a disposition sheet, he gets a little offended on a client’s behalf, because right there is written 6m LOL. Someone laughing at a six month jail sentence? 

“Oh, no,” says Pepper, “that means ‘loss of license.’ Jail usually comes with suspended time, so it would look like this.” She points out elsewhere, where someone has written ‘60/56d’. “Sixty days, fifty-six suspended. Means they only have to serve four days in jail.” 

“What happens to the other 56?” 

“Nothing, usually,” says Pepper, “unless they go on to do something else stupid.” 

The jail is Central River Jail. Their visiting hours are 9-11:30AM, then 12:30-4PM. They will only let you see three people at a time. No visitation on Wednesday mornings. Or weekends. Schedule 24 hours in advance if you want to meet in a room alone with the defendant, or just talk through the phone like everyone else. 

“That’s ridiculous,” says Steve, appalled.

“Private jail,” explains Natasha, with a shrug, like, what’re you gonna do? 

Natasha is the second best to follow around, and Steve likes her, real fast. He’s not sure he trusts her, but she’s sharp, she’s ruthless, and she knows the law inside and out. 

Steve’s always been a forest kinda guy. Not as in the actual wildlife-containing area – though he likes those too – but as in he tends to see the _forest_ , not the trees. But, those first two weeks, he is _drowning_ in trees. 

His first glimpse of the forest comes unexpectedly, when he gets the files for his first solo court day. There are ten cases; four of them are under code section 46.2-301, driving on a suspended license. The license is generally suspended for fines and court costs that haven’t been paid. And the third 301 charge carries with it a mandatory minimum 10 days in jail.

He wanders over to Natasha’s office. “This isn’t fair,” is what he says. 

The look she gives him is unimpressed. 

“There’s no reason for it. There’s no buses around here; how do they get to work? What are they supposed to do?”

“Go on welfare?” suggests Natasha. She sounds serious, but he doesn’t think so. 

“Really,” he says. “What do they do?” 

She puts down her files. “They keep driving,” she says. “And keep getting charged. Convicted. And start losing their jobs. And then they get more jobs. Drive. Charge. Conviction.” 

“It’s not fair,” he says, again.

“I know.” 

“Is someone,” and he’s restless, he’s _angry_ , “is someone suing about this?” 

“Thought I heard about something, a while back,” she says. “Listen, the judges around here? They’ll give someone about four months to try and pay everything off and get their license back. But it doesn’t work. The courts charge interest, late fees, collection fees, interest on late fees and collection fees…” 

“Payment plans?” 

“You need a down payment,” she tells him. “New law says you only have to put 5-10% down, but they used to ask for 40%.” 

Steve rubs at his face. 

“Welcome to Virginia,” Natasha says, and shoves a paper at him. “This is our handout on getting their license back. Sam wrote it.” 

“Thanks.” 

She nods. It’s a dismissal. 

On the way out, he passes by Wanda’s office. She has her head in her hands. He pauses, hand on her doorframe.

“You okay?” he asks. 

She glances up, red-eyed. Shakes her head. 

He remembers that she had a bench trial set for earlier that day. Five counts of welfare fraud. Can’t remember anything else about the case. 

“Want to talk about it?” 

Shake of her head, again. This time, softly: “No.” 

“Want me to leave?” 

Tension knots her shoulders. She doesn’t shake her head. She doesn’t nod, either. 

He slips into the office, and eases into a seat across from her desk. Leans forward and offers his hand, on her desk, next to a set of two picture frames that she has facing towards her. She barely looks – but reaches out her hand, slips it into his, squeezes his tight. 

And, against her other hand, she sobs and sobs. 

He doesn’t go until she’s done. He doesn’t ask. She doesn’t tell. 

But, later that afternoon, when Pepper leaves – 4:30, on the dot, because she comes in at 8AM and because Phil is, apparently, not an asshole about it – he steps over to the stack of finished cases for the day, and finds the right file. Flips through it. 

He finds a handful of medical records, stapled together. (Can’t help but think – if this were a private law firm, there would be boxes and boxes of them.) Four pages, front and back; a report prepared by a doctor, for social services, about the defendant. His IQ was 59, said the report; he fell into a range of mild to moderate mental retardation. Incapable of working most jobs. Difficulty understanding complicated proceedings. 

He goes over to the police report, which is written out in Wanda’s perfect, slanted handwriting. It says the _fraud_ part of the welfare fraud consists of a failure to check a box saying his uncle, whom he lives with, was convicted of felony drug possession in 1987. Each of the five counts of fraud is for a six-month period – one for each signed application for benefits. 

Steve curses, softly. 

He looks up and sees Wanda, at the foot of the stairs. Doesn’t know what to say, for a long moment, but her expression isn’t accusing. Just empty. 

“This is it?” he asks. 

“Yes,” she tells him. “That’s it.” 

After she’s gone for the day – early, and no one makes a fuss, which Steve appreciates for her –

“Sometimes, the days are rough,” says Phil. 

Steve can see that. But it’s – it’s a _clean_ kind of rough. He can see Wanda did her best on the case, with the time and resources she had. He doesn’t think her tears were guilt. They were anger, and grief. He’s fighting the urge to send a prosecutor through one of the flimsy courthouse walls, too. 

Feels better than hating yourself at the end of the day, he thinks. 

“The prosecutor in that case was Loki,” and Phil’s voice is low, when he says that. Makes something strange twist in the pit of Steve’s stomach. “He’s Thor’s brother. It’s a sensitive subject.” 

Just a warning, Steve reminds himself. Just one colleague to another, and fair warning. 

“Thanks,” he manages. 

\-- 

Another brutal eye-opener when Wanda takes him along to get discovery about an upcoming case. 

“They don’t send it over?” asks Steve, taking the steps up to the courthouse door two at a time. The public defenders are a block over; the prosecutors are inside the courthouse. In other circumstances, he might have resented that privilege, but this courthouse is a _serious_ piece of shit. Like someone took a high school and a jail, and squished them into a building 2/3 too small, and then abandoned it for ten years before re-opening. There’s filth in all the corners, and the downstairs courtrooms smell _foul_ unless the temperature’s set somewhere between ‘cool’ and ‘literally breathing frost’. 

“Too lazy,” says Wanda. “You know what we get?” 

Her accent, slight but lovely, still catches his attention. Is it Russian? Certainly Eastern European. “Can’t remember if that was on the bar,” he says. 

“Defendant’s statements,” she says, “defendant’s criminal record, and scientific reports.” 

And they enter, passing through the metal detector awkwardly shoved into place at the bottom of a stairwell, probably some time after 9/11. The detector shrieks with dismay after each of them passes through, but the deputies don’t give either of them a second glance. They know Wanda; they’re already used to Steve. 

“What about Brady?” The Supreme Court case, he means, where the justices decided that a defendant has a constitutional right to hear about exculpatory evidence. Because apparently someone needed to say that. 

“Who gets to decide what is Brady information?” she asks. And she nods at the logo outside the prosecution’s offices. 

“They do,” sighs Steve. Of course. 

“But, we are lucky,” she tells him. “This jurisdiction, and the cities, they have ‘open file’ policy. We can come in and look through everything, except work product.” 

“Why do they do that?” Steve asks. 

“We can’t photocopy anything,” she says, “including things we’re entitled to, for it. And it means they don’t have to take the time to take out all the information we should get and only give us that.” 

“So, lazy,” echoes Steve. “Like you said.” 

She shrugs a yes. Knocks on a window, and waves to someone inside. A buzzer sounds; she pushes open the door to the prosecutor’s offices. 

“If you can’t photocopy… guess that’s why you told me to bring a legal pad.” 

“He might wear a uniform, but he’s not stupid,” she says. She hands him one file, and takes another. 

Steve starts writing down everything important he can find. 

\-- 

So here’s how the schedule works, explains Tony, one time. 

(Steve is not really listening during most of this; his pencil’s wandering across the legal pad, sketching shadows and slashing the sharp lines of Tony’s elbow, goatee, suit jacket. But this is the gist that he understands, later.) 

The court doesn’t give a damn about the public defenders. It schedules everything to the convenience of the Carlton County _deputies_ , and the state troopers, and the city police departments. 

Each officer has their regular, monthly court date. Every arrest, every speeding ticket, every investigation and domestic call and K9 dog sniff and what-have-you comes to court on _those days_. 

If the case is scheduled to come to court on a day you’re scheduled to be in court, congratulations: it’s yours. 

And from there, each of the four jurisdictions covered by the office (the large Carlton County, the mostly-empty Bridgewater County, and the two cities of Stand and Axeborough) goes a little differently, but the average is something like this: 

9-10AM: Traffic tickets. The courtroom is crowded with people of every stripe and creed. Probably disproportionately black.

10AMish: The lawyers start filing in. Misdemeanor criminal cases start. 

12PM: Everyone is irritated that court hasn’t ended on time to take lunch.

1-1:30PM: One shift of lawyers switches out for another. The judge takes a short break to urinate and fuel up. 

1:30PM: The 1PM docket starts. More traffic tickets.

2PM: Preliminary hearings on felonies. In these completely pointless charades, the judge decides whether there’s probable cause to send the felony to higher court, where there are things like juries and records and clerks that are actually accessible by phone. 

3PM: Bond hearings.

4PM: Bond hearings run over time. 

4:30PM: Last case. Court’s over. Everyone has long since given up on the idea of justice. 

“That one courtroom,” says Tony, gesturing vaguely in the direction of at least five courtrooms that Steve knows of, “had 407 cases last Wednesday. One judge, one guy with his ass on the seat. Can you believe that?” 

Steve, actually, can’t. “I heard those statistics,” he says. “Public defenders get an average of eight minutes of preparation, per case…?” 

Tony barks a laugh. “Just wait,” he says. “You’ll learn to do two types of cases, right off the cuff, no problem. First, driving on suspended. Second, domestic assault.” 

Steve flinches. 

“You’ll see,” Tony insists, his expression hardening. 

\--

It wasn’t fair to react like that. 

Yeah, juvenile/domestic court is – well, it sucks, that’s all. Half of it is defending kids, and that’s just fine. Steve doesn’t bond with many of them, but he doesn’t have to. He gets them. He can _feel_ , can see how just doing his job creates openings for them, opportunities they could be denied. 

The other half – Tony was right. Domestic assault. 

And Steve hates it. 

This is the first time, the first thing since he took this job that grates on his conscience. Yeah, okay, _everyone has a right to an attorney_ , but looking at pictures of women with tear tracks and black eyes and trails of blood peppered down their skin – gravel, why is it always that they fell on _gravel_? – is enough to wear anyone down. 

\--

“What do you do about it?” he asks Phil.

A long day. Phil rubs at his forehead. He’s got his jacket off, a rare thing, and sleeves rolled up. Plain watch on his left arm, twisted so that the face of it is at the soft skin at the inside of his wrist, not on the outside. 

“My point of view has changed,” he says. “More than once. But, Steve, the hardest thing, here – you have to understand that you can’t fix everything.” 

Steve rejects this, quietly and privately, but the pain in Phil’s eyes means he’s more transparent than he thinks. 

“Maybe that’s a cop-out,” Phil continues. “I don’t know. But you can’t, you _can’t_ convince these women to press charges. It’s against every ethical duty we have.” 

“What about the moral ones?” 

“Gotta let it go,” says Phil. “We agree to take on this job knowing that we will look on the face of evil. Knowing that we have to hold its hand and stand up next to it and ask the court for forgiveness.” 

He uses the word knowing Steve used it too, in that job interview. 

“Yeah,” Steve rasps. 

“They’ll call,” says Coulson. “They’ll call and tell you they fell, they dreamed it, they hit first. The number one way you know who’s the abuser and who isn’t – you know what that is?” 

Steve doesn’t know, not for sure, but he guesses: “They say it’s their fault?” 

“The victims do,” says Phil. “Yeah.” 

Steve’s heart breaks a little, and heals a little, because, softly, selfishly, a corner of his mind reminds him: _you always thought it was your fault._

\--

What surprises him is the laughter. 

There’s always something. Every day, in a graduated mess from about noon to about one, the people in the office take lunch, and a good handful of them eat in the conference room. 

They share stories. All of them, constantly telling stories. 

“It’s called a – what is it,” says Rhodey, “a, I think it’s a Wizzinator?” 

“Wizzinator,” wheezes Clint. 

“So when your probation officer’s watching, making sure that you piss clean, if you want to fake it, you have to have something to, uh,” Rhodey gestures, vaguely. 

“Whip out?” suggests Natasha, deadpan. 

“Thank you, Natasha.” Dry-toned. “You have to have something to _show_ , to imply that you’re actually doing the deed. Except this guy made a mistake.” Rhodey pauses, for dramatic effect. Totally not necessary; everyone’s listening. “It was the wrong color.” 

This doesn’t get the reaction he’s hoping for. 

“What, like… not yellow?” asks Clint. 

Rhodey rubs a hand against his face. “Come _on_ , people,” he says. “The guy was white, the Wizzinator was… not.” 

A split second, and the table absolutely erupts. 

Clint is almost crying from laughter. “So he’s there,” he manages, “with the PO, and then just whips out --?” 

“A big black one, yes,” Rhodey confirms. “A big black one.” 

Steve cannot think of a single other job where a discussion like this would be not only appropriate but _relevant_. 

\--

“Hey, you got a minute?” asks Rhodey. 

“Sure.” Steve starts to get to his feet –

“Nah, stay there.” Rhodey passes him a stack of papers. “New direct indictment, 21 counts possession of child porn.” And he must catch a glimpse of what’s in Steve’s face, because he sits a little heavily down in the seat across from Steve’s desk. “I know, I know. And we can’t see the images anyway, not until later.” 

“How do you defend if you can’t—” Steve stops himself. 

“Find yourself asking that question a lot?” asks Rhodey. “Because we all stop, after a year or so. Okay, here’s the thing: I don’t have time to really dig into this, but there was a new case, not too long ago, that I think’s on point. Okay, so, there’s one count for every image found on this guy’s computer, right?” 

“Yeah?” 

“But some of those images are from something called the thumb cache,” he says. “Thumbnail cache? I’m not familiar with the terms, but it needs specialized software to recover it from the hard drive. Essentially, it’s like when your computer makes a smaller version of an image for a thumbnail, and it keeps that smaller version after the image is deleted.” 

“Right,” says Steve. “What do you want me to do?” 

“Find that case,” he says, “and figure out what the hell it’s talking about, since you don’t have a full caseload yet? I mean,” and he holds up the file. It’s thicker than most of the ones that have already passed through Steve’s hands. “Look at this. It’s all indictments. The maximum sentence this guy’s looking at is four lives plus a handful of centuries. It’s nuts. And it’s fair enough to prosecute him for the stuff that’s there, but…” 

“Yeah,” says Steve. “Not really for the stuff that’s not there.” 

Rhodey nods, apparently relieved. Why would he be relieved? 

“Thanks, man,” he says. “Appreciate the help.” 

\--

“How many of your clients do you think are guilty?” Steve asks Natasha. 

She considers it, tapping the back end of her pen on the legal pad. “Eighty-five percent,” she says. “Why?” 

Makes him feel… depressed, for a second. Cynical. “I was thinking more like ninety-five.” 

“Ten percent,” she says, “I think are guilty of something close but not quite.” 

“Like?” 

“Reckless driving instead of DUI,” she says. “Possession instead of dealing. Battery instead of wounding.” 

“Okay.” He weighs this. “Yeah, I think that’s right.” 

She nods, as though the topic is closed.

\--

The bar thing, that wasn’t just a special occasion. It’s every Thursday, or whenever someone had a jury trial, or just whenever. 

“Hey, hey,” says Sam, “what superpower would you have, if you had a superpower?” 

He directs this at the group, at large. 

Clint nails a dart into the center of a cluster of darts he’s already placed. “Destroying Tony at darts.” 

“Hey,” says Tony, “that doesn’t take superpowers, okay?” 

“Oh, self-burn,” Clint shoots back. 

“No, seriously,” says Sam. “I think I’d want to fly. You next.” He nods at Natasha. 

“Don’t need one,” she says, with a little smile. “I’d win, no matter what.” 

This seems fair to everyone, so they move on, to Wanda. She pauses, apparently thinking it over, and decides: “Magic.” 

A collective groan greets this. 

“Then I can do anything,” she says. “I can make power into what I want.” 

“Cheating,” protests Tony. 

“Fine,” says Wanda, “what’s yours?” 

Tony, for once, doesn’t actually seem to like all the eyes being on him. “Uh,” he says. “Maybe – being invulnerable. Iron skin, something like that.” 

“Iron’s not invulnerable,” Rhodey points out. 

“Aw, shut up,” says Tony, punching him in the arm. Then: “ _Ow_ ,” and he shakes out his hand, as Rhodey laughs. 

“All right, my real one is perfect aim,” says Clint. “Hit the target, every time.” 

“How about you, Thor?” asks Sam. 

“I’m the god of thunder,” says Thor, with a grin. “Obviously.” 

“Bruce?” 

Bruce holds up his hands. “Don’t want one,” he says. “I’ll be the normal guy. I’m fine with that.” 

“Rhodey.” 

“I’ll take iron skin _and_ flying,” says Rhodey. 

“If mine is cheating, so is his,” cuts in Wanda. 

“Okay, moving it along. Pepper?” 

“Flying,” says Pepper, “iron skin, _and_ not needing a superpower because I’m better than all of you.” A beat. “Except Natasha.” 

Natasha salutes Pepper with a bottle of cider. 

“Phil?” 

Phil raises an eyebrow. “Herding cats,” he says. This is met with laughter. 

“How about you, Steve?” 

Sam’s eyes on him, Tony’s eyes on him, Phil’s eyes on him. And Wanda, and Natasha, and everyone. 

“Self-righteousness,” suggests Tony. “The Constitution. Ooh, I know – summoning American flags whenever you need them.” 

“The Constitution’s my superpower _now_ ,” Steve points out. 

Tony rolls his eyes. 

“What do you think?” Steve asks, tossing the question out to the audience. 

“I think,” says Natasha, before anyone else can speak, “that your superpower would be _you_.” 

“Yeah,” says Sam, hushed. “Yeah.” 

“I agree,” says Coulson. 

Tony doesn’t say anything. Just looks away, and Steve sees his throat work as he swallows. 

Wanda’s gaze doesn’t waver. She nods, once. 

Steve doesn’t get it. Doesn’t see it, himself, but there’s something he can see, something reflected in their eyes. He can’t follow himself, but he can follow the echo they send back towards him. 

He wants to be worthy. 

“I’ll go with that,” he says.


End file.
